


The Fire In Our Veins

by AFineLine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Magic, Dolores Umbridge is Her Own Warning, Gen, Good Fred Weasley & George Weasley, Graphic Description of Wounds, Larger Consequences to Not So Trivial Problems, Not Awful Severus Snape, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Protective Minerva McGonagall, Sometimes I Play Fast and Loose with Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFineLine/pseuds/AFineLine
Summary: It was not the pulsing, burning pain that radiated through his left arm, nor was it the vibrant crimson lines crawling up it that finally motivated Harry to ask for help. It was his inability to speak the words he wished to say.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	The Fire In Our Veins

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you have any particular sensitivity to graphic depictions of injuries on either the top or bottom of the wrist this story might not be the one for you.  
> The partial inclusion of blood magic in the Harry Potter Series has always struck me as odd. In this fic, I will be exploring how different Order of the Pheonix could have been if blood magic was truly as powerful as the series sometimes implies.

Regardless of what other people around the school might say, Harry had never considered himself much of a liar. To be frank, he was actually quite terrible at it. Sweaty palms and a darting gaze always seemed to give him away when attempting to lie through his teeth. He often preferred to push forward the dunderheaded Gryffindor image that Professor Snape so often ridiculed him for in attempts to evade answering questions that he knew he shouldn’t answer truthfully. Playing dumb had always served him well at the Dursley’s, and it had worked just as well for him at Hogwarts.

Despite all that, Harry often found himself not lying, as he liked to think, but softening the truth. Most often, he did this to save feelings or excuse himself from interactions that he honestly just couldn’t handle at the moment. It is precisely this type of situation where his newfound inability to choose his words became quite problematic. 

Whatever the cause, the change in Harry’s behavior that this caused did not come on suddenly. At first, he contributed any bluntness in conversations to the utter exhaustion he always felt. Exhaustion was not a new feeling, but between the aftermath of the cup, the dementor attack, the farce of a trial he had to endure, and Dumbledore brushing off any attempts at conversation, had Harry feeling a bone-deep tired that he had not yet experienced before. This fatigue only became even more overwhelming when he saw, to his horror, that one of the ministry employees that had attended his trial with venom in her eyes, would be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. The constant scorn of most of his schoolmates paired with consistent detentions with this toad of a Dark Arts Professor was enough to fling him right over the edge of stability.

All of this considered, Harry felt he had every right to be a bit jagged. Walking upside down on the tightrope that is the Hogwarts social structure is bound to make anyone edgy. Now, more often than not, his conversations would end with blunt dismissals and become peppered with thoughts that before would have never dared left his head. What used to be “I just remembered I needed to go and finish my potions essay” turned into “I am leaving because I can’t stand to listen to this anymore.” So on and so forth until even Ron and Hermoine were starting to look at him oddly. 

The general care that Harry usually showed for others and their feelings was no longer apparent. No matter how hard he tried to soften his words, any thought that crossed his mind slipped right out of his mouth regardless of the sensitivity the conversation would typically require. The inability to filter thoughts became maddening, driving Harry away from the few friends that stuck around to support him. This is how Harry found himself staring into the fire at an ungodly hour in the Gryffindor common room after yet another torturous detention with Professor Deloras Umbridge.

Hours spent gazing into the fire was not giving Harry any of the answers he desperately wanted. Torn between wishing for a friendly face to appear in the fire and a begrudging need to be left alone, the conflicting thoughts rendered him still in indecision. Would Sirius even be who he wanted to talk with about something like this? Sometimes he thinks the unwavering support that his Godfather shows would be enlivening. On the other hand, the emotional stability and control he has shown after over a decade in Azkaban, Harry must admit, would probably not help him at all.

With the swirling thoughts in his head, the ache in his left arm seems to only intensify. Absentmindedly, Harry massaged his wrist and slowly worked up his forearm. 

Ever since his first detention with Umbridge, having to watch the blood well up as he carved those dreaded words into his own skin, Harry couldn’t force himself to look at the shredded mess the top of his left wrist had become. After nearly running out of that detention he holed himself up in his dorm’s bathroom. Harry decided then and there that he would be keeping it covered, hoping if he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t think about it. 

Early in the morning, before any of his dormmates would even consider rising, Harry always remembered to transfigure a bandage for his wrist and had become entirely too efficient at changing it without even glancing at his arm. Nearing a month of almost constant detentions, he knew it probably looked really bad. Keeping the cuffs of his uniform shirt buttoned snugly against his slim wrists was no hardship in the chill September weather. Any redness was easily explained away as chapped skin, a result of the brisk weather. 

His inability to choose his words wisely, particularly around Umbridge, had become a source of constant contention between the two. Each offence resulted in another scheduled detention that resulted in more stress, later nights attempting to get homework done, less sleep, and an undeniably shorter fuse. It seemed like every night would result in more searing pain in his wrist and an ache that seemed to travel farther and farther up his arm after each session with the quill. The ache had become near-constant, and while Harry knew he had a high pain tolerance, this was becoming infuriatingly distracting. 

With an exasperated huff, Harry squeezed his arm, nails digging into the flesh through his shirt. In a fit, Harry tugged and pulled on his shirt sleeve before slamming both his arms into the plush arms of the stuffed chair. A shockwave of pain reverberated through his left arm, so jarring that he found himself breathing through clenched teeth. 

After several minutes of tense breathing, the indecision Harry had been struggling with cleared. No matter the issues he was facing with his friends taking care of his arm was about to become his first priority. Like any of the other injuries he had in the past, he knew he could take care of it, but first, he had to face it.

Quietly sneaking past the forms of his sleeping dormmates, Harry picked through the contents of his trunk until he found the small expandable pouch that contained the first aid supplies he had snitched from the Dursley’s and previous visits to the hospital wing. 

When he finally reached the bathroom, Harry set the pouch on the counter and braced himself on the sink.

“I just have to look at it. It can’t be any worse than what I have dealt with before.” 

He sighed before gently unbuttoning the cuff. A grimace crossed his face as he began peeling the bandage off his wrist. The blood from yesterday’s detention had dried, making the removal more uncomfortable than it should have been.

Once the bandage was off, and he was able to clear up the blood, Harry was finally able to get a good look at his wrist for the first time in almost a month. The script looked really bad, the skin around it vermilion and inflamed. Each word looked as if it had been pressed into the skin, looking more like it had been gouged in rather than raised like most scratches that had started to heal. As he prodded around blood, once again, started filing the groove each letter. 

Upon further inspection, Harry realized the redness that enveloped his wrist seemed to go much further up his arm. Considering the soreness he had experienced lately in his forearm, he figured he would not find anything good there. 

Gingerly Harry stripped off his shirt so that he could more easily assess his arm. Blood red lines crawled up his arm from the words gouged into his skin. The flesh was swollen and tender to the touch. Rotating his arm showed him the same sight on the opposite side. The angry red lines reminded him of the blood poisoning one of the Dursley’s neighbors had suffered from after surgery four summers ago.

Harry continued to stare at his arm for what felt like hours despite only having been minutes when he noticed faint shapes running along the angry lines. Bracing himself on the counter, Harry closed his eyes to think. He had seen enough of Hermionie’s homework to know that those shapes looked a little too much like runes for his tastes. Standing there, thoughts raced through his head until he finally came to a realization. It seemed like he wouldn’t only be tackling one problem by figuring out how to deal with his arm; it looks like things were definitely more interconnected than he thought. Harry physically shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts. As he opened his eyes, he couldn’t help but stare at the angry red command etched into his skin.

I must not tell lies.


End file.
